2:112 Human Contact

By the insanely talented and appallingly young Leah Reena Goren

Most humans grow up cognizant of the fact that they need regular contact with other humans. Not this girl! I need my mom, of course, to love me and scratch my back and point out that most of my problems aren’t legitimately problems… like the emotionally reactive puppy that I am. I need to have friends and family and know that they’re peripherally out there in the world; occasionally considering whether or not I’m still alive and what I’m up to. I’m even described as a “people person.” I talk to strangers; I like crowds; I run into people I know everywhere because I know everyone, which seriously impedes my ability to wear my favorite outfit (velour leopard pajama bottoms + cats against cat calls t-shirt) outside of my apartment. And although people literally cramp my ramshackle style,  I scored a 7 out of 65 on Buzzfeed’s How Much Do You Hate People? quiz, which means that I only 11% hate people; which means I 89% like people, so if I’m grading on a curve because, hello, the internet is to cynicism what my bloodstream is to caffeine and my fingers are so damn twitchy that I’m having trouble typing; I get an A in tolerating, nay – APPRECIATING – my fellow bipeds…

…from a distance.

The past few years have been about carving out creative space and learning how to say “thanks for the invite to your improv marathon or your friend’s parents’ lakehouse or your whiffleball league, but um…no,” without apologizing for my lack of interest. The should-be-obvious byproduct, however, of narrowing my field of distraction in the interest of finding myself is losing everybody else. Relationships take effort. This was a revelation to me, I sh*t you not. I was recently awoken in the night by a stampede of dreamy electric sparkle-horses of PURE ENLIGHTENMENT – which I don’t remember even a little bit, but I know it happened because I discovered this in my bedside notebook the next day:

 

Connecting is easy maintaining hard like horses… There is no inherent wisdom in dreams.

It probably means that I should stop eating bananas before bedtime, but I’m going to interpret it like this: being a “people person” is not an accomplishment in and of itself. The real work is in building and maintaining relationships. So now that I know how to take care of myself — through making and writing and running and eating plants — I can get back to the business of taking care of other people. I can do a better job at letting my friends know that I love them. I can take advantage of family time more often — maybe I’ll use the commute to day dream! Maybe I’ll finish my book on a Metra to the suburbs! Because The Universe has given me this baller family, and this posse of boss-ass bitches, and while I do ask that the people in my life respect my need for space in which to overshare on the internet or glue rhinestones on things that don’t require rhinestones, I’d be nuts to let my bonds get busted just because I’m perpetually annoyed with myself for not completing all the projects, every project. My ambitions for a faux flower wall will wait for me — but maybe people won’t.

Also: horses.

XOXO,
Rose

2:105 Our Intention Creates Our Reality…?

By the very lovely Jen Corace

Sweet Friend! Greetings from my months-long state of limbo, which as it turns out, has nothing to do with doing the limbo — although imagining myself in stupefied reverse hunchback seems illustrative of my current plight: my back-achey, self-focused, unable to effectively move forward because aerodynamics the Goddamned (beautiful, don’t hate) Universe appears to be testing me… still… plight. Less in a Job way, more in a Season 2 Marnie Michaels kind of way.

Anywho.

That’s not to say my life hasn’t been rich as sh*t. This weekend alone involved a burlesque opera performance by moi and the rest of Lingerie Lyrique at a fundraiser for {she crew}. THEY HAD A PATRIARCHY PINATA THAT WE COULD LITERALLY SMASH and obviously I was excited about it. I also had the honor of participating in a Comfort Station Logan Square community forum about gentrification and generally bettering my hood, which, it so happens, was attended by really important political figures (state rep, alderman, chamber of commerce guy, etc.) and impassioned community members of all stripes… not just the young, hip Comfort Station staff as we had all feared. And I went to a garage band festival and drank a lot of PBR and floated around in the lusty spring air and swung on swings meant for babies in the nighttime like a bonafide wildewoman #YOLO

I’ve also been yoga-ing it up, and you can laugh at me if you’d like, but I make all sorts of life connections on the mat… even if I can’t do crow pose. Yoga asks us to set an intention to begin each class — at least my kind of yoga does; that is, the kind wherein we talk about pranas and chakras and spend more time chanting than we spend on ab work because, I’m sorry, Tibetan monks did not participate in anything called “crunch time.” It occurred to me that maybe I should set more intentions for, you know, LYFE, so that I can make something of all my disparate activities. So that I can stand erect, turn off the Harry Belafonte, and take in my surroundings from the vantage point of a tall, proud, perpendicular person. So that I can be present enough to ask myself at any given moment: am I honoring my intention right now?

My intentions for today are to enjoy myself, to live openly, and to learn something about my purpose… so methinks blogging is a positive start! Join me in setting an intention for the day, for the hour, whatever… and tell me in the comments! I, ahem, intend to get inspired by all of you 🙂

XOXO,
Rose

 

2:100 The Unicorn Manifesto

By Ben Giles

Dahlings, I don’t mean to brag, but I’m, like, the weirdest. Always have been. Always will be… just FYI. And following periods in which my future and I are metaphysically shat upon by The Universe over and over again — the downswing, if you will — I tend to spend a lot of time reading about magical people, manifesting our dreamiest dreams, higher purposes, etc., because I believe in all of the aforementioned hippie crap. And you should, too. Below, LYFE, as defined by yours truly.

1. You can will things to happen. When you take the time to figure out who you are and what you want, and then you ask for what you want, you usually receive it. Consider it a reward for doing the work that comes with self awareness… except:

2. A lot of times it turns out you didn’t want what you thought you did … because you don’t actually know anything. As far as I can tell, The Universe doesn’t want to make things easy for you. The Universe wants to expose truths — gradually, and as you grow ready for them. Maybe the closest approximation to a cosmic end goal is a wholly philosophical populace armed with the necessary experience to do and make some game changing stuff. Maybe. But I don’t know anything either.

3. Pay attention and The Universe will whisper your purpose to you. When you drain your brain of mental effluvia (i.e. How do I continue to fund my groovy lifestyle? Am I allergic to mangoes? Should an adult woman own more than one bra? Who is Juan Pablo? Etc.), you make room for the aforementioned truth. You could meditate, if that’s your jam… but that’s just extra. To properly assess what you’re supposed to be doing, you have to engage. So I write. And I run and I paint Juggalo cats. And then I process all of my doings – maybe through meditation… but more likely through more writing or in between episodes of The Mindy Project while I simultaneously eat cookies off of my stomach #glamour. There’s no right way to live presently and mindfully, but when you find what works for you, things start to make sense. That said, …

4… We don’t have any control. Even if you’re the sparkliest, unicorn-y-est person, you’re still just a person, and The Universe could squash you at any moment. Sorry guys. BUT there’s always a point to the squashing: a major lesson to be learned so that you can best navigate your path, once you’ve scooped up and reassembled all of your recently flattened unicorn guts. The trick is to keep paying attention, keep doing your thing (Juggalo. Cats.). And once you have an understanding of what your purpose is, you can always come back to it… as long as you don’t get distracted.

5. BECAUSE JEALOUSY GIVES YOU METAPHYSICAL PIMPLES. Comparing yourself to others serves only to clog your truth-receiving pores. We’re all in this together, and your path is just as valid and necessary as everyone else’s. So some people were born with trust funds and Kardashian/West genes and diamond encrusted everything: those people have sh*t to deal with that you’ve never even considered. Stop worrying about them

6. … Judgement gives you pimples, too. I get a lot of side eyes. Maybe you wouldn’t wear thigh highs to an apple orchard #projecting. That’s cool. But when you judge me for my choices, fashion or otherwise, you’ve lost your path. You’re off-roading, basically, but it’s not fun if YOU’RE not fun, you know? Joy comes from within, and wiggly, amorphous blobs like myself can hold, like, way more joy than squares can.

Biddies, tell me your manifestos! How do you find meaning in this lovely mess? This is either the start of a wholly enlightening conversation or a super scary cult, and I would just like to say that I am unwilling to shave my head at this juncture.

XOXO,
Rose

2:99 Happy. Hungry. Vain.

Hello, little gremlins. Spring has (almost barely not quite) arrived; speedy and surefooted as an octogenarian marathon runner, and just as alluring in bike shorts . Though surely fecund with inspiration beneath the dusty layers of…old… this winter’s been a tough nut to crack, eh?

Eh.

I owe you all a legitimate confession re: why I appear to have become a fatalist as of late — but not today. Today we’re sitting in the shallow end of the baby pool where we babies are permitted to discuss three things and three things ONLY:  boyz springtime food, beauty and sunshiney doings that could put the proverbial spring back in our collective step. As such, I am hereby instituting the Happy. Hungry. Vain Series.

Happy (aforementioned sunshiney doings):

• I am blessed with art. Everywhere. In the past week, I’ve played cultured groupie to a Swedish Gypsy Rap Band; a ballet that half-served as a reinterpretation of Edward Gorey illustrated stories, half-served as an ode to Freddy Mercury; artist in residence at Comfort Station, Renee Robbins…  and Ann Patchett. As a result, I’m inspired to channel my inner Muppets Chef/Macklemore, don my pilgrim-goth cloak, and write the next great American novel.
• I’ve been making again. With the advent of spring, my twitchy fingers tromp my inherent sloth. Amidst the pictorially alluded to flower crowns, sketches and Barbie ™ Carcass Couture that I’m always kinda workin’ on, I’m painting couple portraits of all of my friends who are marrying one another. I’m 26. There’s an engagement epidemic… if you’re newly infected, I can tell you right now: you’re getting a charming couple characterization (oil on canvas) by Rose. OH, and I’m working on a burlesque revival piece on the women’s suffrage movement with Lingerie Lyrique. Normal.  (You can see us at the {she crew} Sadie Hawkins dance on Friday!)
• New friends. Blooming the world over like loamy dandelion fluff. Smooch.

Hungry 

• Feeling rawful. If you’ve been reading for a while, you know that I eat very healthily and very vegan-ly… but this past winter; somewhere between “I can’t feel my ears” and “All of my loungewear is crusted in cat hair…. meh,” I got a little heavy handed with the oil/salt/nuts/other necessary hibernate-y evil edibles. I also succumbed to buying a LOT of meals out because… convenience and cold… so now I’m broke and craving raw food. I’ve been carting a liter of homemade green juice in an air tight mason jar to work every day, and pretty much exclusively feasting on raw fruits, veggies and (cooked) quinoa — simultaneously simplifying things at the grocery store and making me feel like a rawk star. There are no Draconian regulations to my little “cleanse”. I will keep it up as long as I feel like keeping it up — but if you’re cute and you want to treat me to a taco or a whiskey sour: yes. A thousand times yes.

Vain 

• I’m really gonna do it. I’m really gonna dye my hair lavender, and you can’t stop me! (Said the tween rebel.) Like a matte platinum – lavender. Sometimes I pin about it.
• Grease lightning. I mentioned this here, but oil pulling truly is everything it’s cracked up to be. My teeth are dramatically whiter, which makes sense… but also, my skin is clearer. Like way clearer. My understanding is this: your mouth is an open wound/a makeout party for feculent, fecund young microbes/a fermenting orifice of scum and rot #kissme. Oil pulling cleans the surface area of your mouth (i.e. NOT your gum’s crevices. You still gotta brush and floss that sh*t out, ya dig?) really effectively, so your body has time to remedy your second coming of puberty skin situation, and all of your other… situations. Swish for 20 minutes then spit it out in the garbage can. Voila. You’re perfect.
• Treat yo’self. I’ve been to two beauty events this past week, for Sephora and Sun Times Splash, and was reminded that some amount of pampering is good for the soul. I might allocate some portion of my tax refund to pedicures… and massages! And blue mascara! Anyway, we’re babes. Never forget it.

Post your own Happy. Hungry. Vain list! And gimme your thoughts in the comments! More to come from me, lovebugs.

XOXO,
Rose

2:90 Unsettled

 

This reminds me that I am out of toilet paper.
Hope Gangloff.

Hello Sweet Friends. I write today to express a wish you may not expect from the likes of me, what with my (once daily) preachings of EMBRACE CHANGE! Blithely create space amidst the chaos in which to make creepy things and say creepy things; space in which to let the process of unleashing your foamy-mouthed innards — your FEMINIST RAGE/your youthful obtuseness/your many-headed complexes/ your skittish, salivating, teeth-gnashing GUTS — keep your beauteous brain above in aqua pura. And while doggy paddling along in a tsunami is a necessary life skill requiring keen self awareness and bravery and absolutely every other character trait that I value… my arms are tired. I want a nap and a vegan ice cream cone. I haven’t published anything honest in weeks and my guts have essentially gnawed themselves to muculent nubs. Yeah, that’s right. Muculent. Nubs.

I’m sick of coping, sick of hustlin’. I am sick in general. I want to be settled — not in a married old lady kind of way, but in a wholly self-content, boss-ass bitch kind of way… just for a little while, you know? Since I started this blog, it’s become more apparent to me that I’m on a path. Reflecting on my interests and the ways I choose to spend my time have clarified my next destination, and I’m grateful for that. But for a while now, I’ve been stranded on the side of the road with the curbside litter and miscellany and a flat on my theoretical Schwinn. I’ve learned, in this limbo, that the frustrating part of finally figuring out what you want is living without it for an unknowable length of time. Now the question is “when?” When will Diddy roll up in his four-doored Fiat? When will a plaid-clad Logan Squarian come at me with a gleaming bike pump? When will I finally toss my helmet over my shoulder and declare “I’M WALKIN’, BITCHES!”?

Time will tell, homies. Time will tell. Truesdale out.

XOXO,
Rose

2:81 Sprung: A Love List

Unnamed revelers in the thaw.
Found on Pinterest. Do you know the artist?

Biddies. It’s Friday. Below, a humble love list:

1. I saw David Sedaris give a reading (largely straight from his diary) this week and it was magic. I adore his Lilliputian voice and stature and the way he explained his vest and ill-fitting, Fred Mertz-ian trousers before he began, lest we audience members wrongfully presume that he was “a vest person.” Never. If you want to feel all the feelings, read Now We Are Five.

2. In case you somehow missed all of my holier than thou #nunpun gloating, I was a sister on the Sound of Music Float in the St. Patrick’s Day parade. Preach!

3. This is the weekend of dinner parties! Tonight: tacos. Tomorrow: Vernal Equinox Feast! I’m making guacamole and lemon roasted asparagus/an edible flower and golden beet salad/lavender lemon tartlets, respectively. Olé/I want my Maypole!

4. I am greeted by name at Whistler now. I went twice this week… Oopsie daisy.

5. TaskRabbit and Benefit delivered a SUPERB swag bag to my office on Tuesday — brimming with under eye de-puffers, look-alive makeup, healthy snacks and quality hydration — just because I tweeted them that I needed hangover help. Which wasn’t even true… I just wanted dat swag. Thank you TaskRabbit and Benefit!

6. Two of my favorite causes merged! Lingerie Lyrique is giving a special performance at the {she crew} fundraiser on April 11, and we start rehearsing this weekend. ALSO, the lovely {she crew} founders are giving a Tedx Talk in May! I am equal parts proud and impressed!!!

7. Lillstreet is hosting a FREE workshop open house tomorrow! Do some metal working! Throw a pot! Screen print a tote bag! Check it out.

8. This weekend, Comfort Station celebrates two of my favorite things: singing at the top of your lungs and bike season! FYI, my other favorite things are iced coffee and dancing to Motown music. Raindrops on roses are cool, too.

9. Have you all tried oil pulling? I know Sandy has! I’ve been doing it for about a week, and I think it’s doing something? I’m not sure if my teeth are visibly whiter, but it makes me feel so fresh and so clean (clean.)

10. I’M GOING TO MAKE STUFF THIS WEEKEND. Sunday is reserved for bedazzling, collaging, painting, feng shui-ing my kitschy lil’ heart out! AND IT’S GOING TO BE SO GREAT.

What are you lovin’? Fill me in, G!

XOXO,
Rose

2:80 This is My Horizon

Alexandra Levasseur
I think this girl looks like me. Does that, too, make me a narcissist?

One of my biggest insecurities is that, by virtue of writing this blog, everyone thinks I’m an egomaniac. For the record, I’m also insecure about my finances and my abnormally malodorous feet, but THAT is quality blog fodder for another day, my friends.

Speaking of blog fodder, it would be pretty easy to dismiss my own thoughts as unimportant. For example, the internet probably doesn’t need to know about my smelly feet, or the fact that one of my most beloved coworkers thinks her cat smells like butter cookies, or that I just signed up  to play softball make daisy chains in left field on Tuesday nights. I could beware the internet trolls, or take note of the fact that everyone hates Hannah for making everything about her. Truth, though: I’m a lot like Hannah. The very selfish parts of her are aggrandized to prove a point, obviously, but if my editor died… I would want to know the fate of my book. I wouldn’t embarrass myself at said editor’s funeral or fabricate a cousin who died at childhood to prove to my boyfriend that I had feelings (mostly because I have tons of feelings and no boyfriend), but, like Hannah, I believe my voice is worthy of being heard.

That’s right. My thoughts matter, b*tchez.

The thing is, your thoughts matter, too. If you’re keeping your unique perspective hidden because you’re afraid of judgement, I consider that selfish. You’re doing the Universe a disservice by stifling your sparkle. You Sparkle Stifler. Because we can only expand our own horizons if we acknowledge and explore the horizons of others. And this is my horizon… b*tchez.

Happy Vernal Equinox, darlings! You got something to say? Say it below!

XOXO,
Rose

2:79 A Lot Going On at the Moment

Clutter buddies. Where to begin?

Beautiful readers, I’m alive! Despite my recurring nightmare in which I’m buried —  stockinged legs wiggling a la the Wicked Witch of the West Side — beneath a house comprised of pungent gym clothes; unclaimed 1098 tax forms; and a self-perpetuating loop of “urgent” emails read aloud by a sneering Mo Rocca (I still love you, Mo Rocca), here I am… mouth-breathing on account of my stymied sinuses, meditating on public transit on account of my forever-humming low grade anxiety, and gorging myself on coconut-ash and banana super dark chocolate on account of… it’s delicious. Plus pictured above: post-beach volleyball in a vintage Armani skirt, rum punch in hand, because #typical and below: dressing up like a nun amidst all of the 18% Irish sinners at the Chicago St. Patrick’s Day parade while acknowledging the inherent irony therein.

Bless this mess. Amen.

I haven’t been writing. Not really. I’ve long suffered from Overachievers Disease, and true to character, I’ve lately been too focused on squeezing extra freelance/volunteer/performance opportunities into my days to make time for Free Form Fun (FFF). I know I think I hope this degree of regimented entropy is fleeting. It has to be. Since, as you know by now, I’m not Rose as I know her if I’m not making something.

Though I’m struggling a bit at present, I’m aware of my position as a cog in the machine of faux-indispensability. When I first read Tim Kreider’s The ‘Busy’ Trap in 2012, I thought he was simultaneously a genius and a smug asshole (the Kanye of The New York Times, if you will), but I’ve come to recognize his gospel — e.g.  “if your job wasn’t performed by a cat or a boa constrictor in a Richard Scarry book I’m not sure I believe it’s necessary…” as common sense. No one will perish if I don’t hit publish; if I don’t manage to send out a press release this instant, or I deploy a typo out into the ether… Likewise, no near-victim will be resuscitated by the stellar click-through rates of my latest email campaign. Because I’m not actually that important, and pretending to be that important doesn’t save me any time or energy. Pretending to be that important doesn’t save anyone or anything at all.

Wisdom saves, though. You can trust me. I’m a nun sometimes. And anyway, I’m talking about the wisdom that comes with realizing that you are just a person and all that really matters in terms of what you do with your life is whether or not you make yourself happy. Here, I mean the work that lights up your soul and exposes all that glitters for you to the world at large; whether through collage or journaling or quality conversation.  I mean the work that you may even simultaneously take pride in and get paid for (magic). The work that doesn’t matter is the work that feels like work; the aforementioned faux-indispensability — that highly contagious, unintentionally pompous mania that you caught from another cog who was just trying to carry out another cog’s boss’s vision, and so on and so forth up and down and around the ladder. Unfortunately, not everyone is as enlightened as you, and rather than fall ill to another’s malady of delusion, you just have to hold your nose and wash your hands clean of those highly evolved mutant spores — those squirming antibodies of discontent — and keep doing your thing. Because your thing, of all things, is the thing that counts.

What’s your thing? Have you been sticking to it, or are you too bogged down in your “more pressing” matters? Newsflash, BB: nothing is more pressing than doing what you love, and doing it often.

XOXO,
Rose

2:71 Writing About Not Writing

I can’t face the blank page… partially because I have no face.
Alexandra Levasseur

Hello Internet! Remember me? From before?

For all my gushing about self reflection, self care and creativity; carving out creative space and nurturing your inner bebe — for all my preaching about confronting the blank page when you’re seemingly drained of everything that glitters in you; when you’re obscured and screaming in the lurid and looming woods of adulthood — I haven’t had much follow-through on the blog front lately, have I?

Recently, friends, I just can’t. My thoughts ring around inside of me like rogue pinballs, but they don’t light me up. They exhaust themselves within minutes, then head to my liver with their deadbeat brain buddies to sloppily commiserate re: their collective inadequacy. And all the while I’m twitchy. I am a human spasm. My fingers spark and short circuit and I know the cure, but the cure takes time — it takes courage. My soul feels the way your legs feel when they need a nice, long run but you’re too exhausted to lace up your pumped up kicks. It feels the way your dog feels cooped up in your studio apartment all day: gruff and growly about his containment, but bitterly resistant to playing fetch when the opportunity arises. Essentially, my imagination muscles are atrophying, but I can’t bring myself to do anything about it but worry.

Obviously, I could follow my own advice and just write. Just draw. Just make some diamonds. But sometimes a fresh canvas is an insurmountable block. The only way you learn to trust yourself is through a history of showing up, and if you haven’t managed to show up to your own projects — if you haven’t shown up to anything but work and the odd dentist appointment for a few weeks — you lose that trust; you build that block higher. It would be insensitive of me to advise anyone experiencing such creative constipation (ew) to just write. Lucky for us, there are baby steps. Here are some ways that I tap into my creativity when I’m too afraid to face the blank page head on:

1. Let your bones articulate…something. Quick story: last night I accidentally went to pilates. Truth: I HATE pilates. I thought I was going to yoga and then, trapped on the mat like a sucker, I felt obligated to stay the hour. Anyway, I’m glad I did, because I picked up some poetry from our teacher. As she urged us to rest each vertebra on the mat, she said “let your bones articulate…” and then she trailed off. Isn’t that beautiful? I’m only writing this post because I couldn’t get the phrase out of my head.

To reiterate: pilates is #theworst, but articulate bones equate to movement with meaning, movement as yet another way to express who you are and who you want to be. Watch this Ted Talk on power poses; think about your gait, your gross new hair twirling habit #projecting, your posture and what they say about you. Tell a story with them bones… then write that story. Make it a good one.

2.  Make something practical. I know practical is a dirty word around here. I hate sensible shoes, for example, even more than I hate pilates. But sometimes it feels good to make something that fills a need. Make your friend a birthday card. Refinish a hideous end table. Superglue your cuckoo clock back together. It’s easier to start a project with an end goal, and it may guide you back to your creative core. (Not to be confused with your pilates core.) Give it a go!

3. Read. This book. This book. This book. This is almost cheating. Read about inspiration and become a vessel… for inspiration. Reading about creating makes you want to create and tells you how to start. Plus your head will swell with ideas. And we all want swollen heads.

4. Morning. Pages. Two pages, stream of consciousness. Write about the three dollars in your bank account and the dream you had where you put on a bald cap and danced with Billy Zane and maybe the best idea you’ll ever have will smack you on the cheek or maybe you’ll just write drivel and nonsense — at least that drivel and nonsense won’t clog up your synapses for the rest of the day.

5. Be nosy. If you have zilch going on in your life that’s worthy of writing down/capturing on film/reinterpreting as a felted forest creature, ask your peers what’s going on with them. You should do this anyway… because…politeness and very basic social graces. But also, people are fascinating! I will never tire of hearing about other people’s habits, other people’s dreams, other people’s definitions of being grown-ass people. I can’t make myself care about gossip or drama involving people I don’t know… I just can’t. But I want to hear about what you eat for breakfast and what you want to be when you grow up. (Feel free to comment, i.e. waffles/astronaut.)

6. Finally, maybe don’t be so dramatic. Omg, I know. Do as I say… or don’t. My point is this: if you let yourself get bogged down in your lack of creative output, you might have a tough time mounting that proverbial horse. You’ll be fine. You’re antsy, but you’re still you. And evil, mutant brainchildren periods of non-production are part of the process. Don’t worry about this as much as I do unless you plan to write about it. Ever notice how I only ever blog about exactly what I need to hear? Along those lines…

7. If you can’t write, write about it. Draw a picture of your block. Maybe it’s a trapezoid, Idk. Your creative block serves a purpose – tell yourself what you need to hear.

That’s all, friends! It’s almost the weekend! How do you unblock yourself? Tell me in the comments!

(ALSO, speaking of CREATIVITY SUPREME: one of my bffs, Michelle, is in the running to win Indiewire’s project of the year. Vote for her film “Like Me” here, and read more about the amazing work she’s doing here!)

XOXO,
Rose

2:63 Free Fun

Ah, the simple life.
By Lue Bleylhine

I need to get better at being a poor person.

Note: I say this with gratitude for all I’ve been given and acknowledgment of the fact that my perpetual pennilessness is my own doing. My family helped me go to a really fancy school, and what did I study? Opera. And POETRY. Because before I reached adulthood, living the life of a starving artist seemed romantic. I could subsist on Tolstoy and oxygen. I could pretend to star in my own personal version of RENT (alternate title: HELL). It didn’t matter that I could touch my stove from my bed with my right foot, or that I concurrently worked as an arts assistant, a sculpture model and a Chicago Chocolate Tours tour guide (real thing) — I was livin’ la via boheme! You know, until I wasn’t… until 525,600 minutes spent not auditioning later, it became clear that I had become less Plath or Klimt or Callas, more James Franco in Spring Breakers (minus the machine guns and cornrows… and grill). Out of necessity, I was not a starving artist but a starving hustler. So it goes.

Nowadays I work in development/marketing for an arts institution, and over the years, I’ve learned to reconcile the 8 hours a day I spend working in an office with all of the cool sh*t I get to do outside of said office. I no longer have to spend my off hours laboring to keep my bills paid: the one job will suffice. But I still do not know the glories of disposable income. I cannot justify the purchase of three $14 cocktails on a Tuesday. I cannot afford cab rides to and fro… but I also can’t afford not to cab fro, lest I be shanked on a CTA platform in the night. Even art-makin’ takes gravy: canvasses and Barbie carcasses and soy lattes writing juice don’t come free. What I’m saying is: I finally have time for fun, but I can only have fun if it’s rul’ cheap, you know?

Ahem. Free fun in Chicago:

1. Auditory Fun.The Empty Bottle has free concerts all the time and they don’t even force you to buy drinks. Free to dance. Free to teetotal it up. Free for all! And once spring hits, there are free lawn concerts (Millennium Park!), free fests (Wicker Park!) and if you live in Logan Square, fregans playing bongo drums on a nearby stoop. Start following all of your local concert venues on Twitter, and get updates on shows near you!

2. Sweaty Fun. Behold: a calendar of all the free yoga classes in Chicago. Thanks, freeyogachicago.com! And once it gets warm, check out the free classes at Pritzker Pavillion and Lincoln Park Zoo! I’m also sometimes in the habit of signing up for free trial weeks… everywhere. Gyms, studios, yadda yadda. If you live in a city, you could feasibly float from bikram class to barre lesson and back again and never pay a dime. I mean, don’t do that forever because it’s rude. But do it until you have the means to pay for whichever form of movement best nurtures you!

3. Creative Fun. Oh look, here’s a shout-out for Comfort Station! If you’re lucky enough to have a cultural center with free programming near you, take advantage! These places need your patronage and support. They often survive via donation, so if you can’t donate, be sure to tell everyone you know how much you love your local gallery/maker’s space/etc. in the hopes that one of them can spare some $$$. The more patient souls among you might also want to brave the crowds at museum freebie nights… Tuesdays at the MCA, Thursdays at the Art Institute, etc. And for ye performance art seekers, theaters almost always have deals for the young and hip: they don’t want just any butt in their seats, they want your broke-ass butt. If you’re hankering to check out a symphony/opera/live seance… Gurgle it. You can probably find a discount.

If you want to do the creating, Pumping Station: One has a starving hacker rate, Girl Develop It Chicago has incredibly reasonable web development workshops for ladies only, and Vaudezilla has “Pay What You Can” classes!

4. Fun you may have forgotten about. Have you all heard of a library? It’s this place where you can borrow books… for FREE. WUT. Also: window shopping. Or better yet, sample shopping! You can walk into a Sephora barefaced and smelling like a human, and emerge wearing tangerine eyeliner and 7 different perfumes. Best way to spend a lunch break, as long as you don’t have any afternoon meetings. Oh! And cocktail parties! (Thank you Jen!)

What are your favorite free ways to revel? Share your secrets with us!

XOXO,
Rose